


Spirit of the Wolf

by BlueEyedArcher



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Acting, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood and Injury, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Historical Reenactment, M/M, Major Character Injury, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paranormal, Scarification, Supernatural Elements, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:13:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22332442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueEyedArcher/pseuds/BlueEyedArcher
Summary: "I think...you might be dead." Geralt offered with a grimace. "You're the textbook case of a ghostly apparition. Sort of. My paranormal knowledge is sort of rusty.""How can I be dead? I remember being alive, singing songs in the taverns and the sweet taste of wine on my tongue. It's as if it were only yesterday." He shook his head. "No, this must be a curse of some kind. It has to be." Jaskier admitted."Who would curse you?" Geralt prodded, more out of curiosity than concern."To be honest? A lot of people. I've made many foes in many courts." He said that almost as if he were proud of the announcement. Like it were a badge of honor.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 125





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a spur of the moment idea so I do hope you all enjoy. Please bare with me as this will update slowly since I am bounfing between working on 4 different fics and try to post a chapter a night. 
> 
> Also, tags will change or be added later to avoid spoilers for later on.

Geralt's opponent was skilled, that was obvious. The firm grip on his sword as he leveled it even, the mindful steps as they circled each other. The subtle rustling of heavy armor chafing against their skin, the oppressive heat beating down on leather and tempered steel. The weight was stifling as Geralt held firm. The knight lunged, the red emblazoned front was scratched and scarred from many a battle. The fiery rose insignia was a proud vision for the wearer as they asserted the honor and glory of their order.

Geralt met their jab with a downward parry, sweeping it up in a circular fashion to redirect their blade and reveal an opening in their guard. His opponent was fast and intelligent, drawing back with a quick side step as they swept their blade to deflect and disengage. The two warriors resumed their footwork, circling like wolves in an arena before moving in again. Blow for jarring blow, swords clashing with a shrill sound as they expertly evaded and deflected until Geralt found the opening he needed. The tip of his blade met the chain link mesh between plating as his opponent stumbled back with a pained grunt. 

He withdrew, leveling his sword back again while they recovered. His amber eyes fixed on the knight until a whistle blew to simulate the end of their session. Both warriors sheathed their swords, the knight returned their steel blade to their belt while Geralt's slid easily back into the scabbard over his shoulder. A gentle tap with the tips of his fingers to the end of the scabbard had it tilted over his shoulder enough to return it with ease. It was a skillful display of experience as he fit the blade snuggly in place. The little _clink_ was comforting as he rolled his shoulders to loosen some of the tension.

His amber eyes swept around the wooden sparring ring erected in the courtyard of Kaer Morhen, the stronghold of the once great School of the Wolf. Legendary warriors of great renown once upon a time, almost a thousand years ago. A couple hundred years prior, it was a crumbling nearly non-existent ruin carved into the mountain side. Now, it was a fully functioning living museum returned to the days of its former glory by actors and historians alike.

Just beyond the gates and a short ride on horse back down the hillside and around the lake, and one could find the old watch tower still currently being reconstructed, and the old Bastion which was an armory and combat barracks turned miniature gift shop for the tourists that flitted through the Valley. Merchant stands and tents littered the area, horses trotted up and down the paths with wagon loads of folks looking to see the world of their ancestors in real time.

Geralt sighed, breathing in the fresh mountain pine air and relishing in the scents of campfire smoke and the nearby sounds of a blacksmith working dutifully away at his anvil. Yes, this was home to him. This place filled the ache that had woven into his heart, an unforeseen yearning that had chased him since childhood to find somewhere he truly belonged. And he found that here, in the heart of Kaer Morhen.

His calm cool gaze swept across the courtyard as a nip of air ghosted across his neck and wrangled a few stray strands into his eyes after the sparring match. It had gathered enough interested people from the tours to gawk and stare, children pointing excitedly at his historically accurate Wolf School armor with its sleek yet sturdy build. It allowed far more maneuverability than traditional armor but less protection he was afraid. Though, it was known the Wolf School were formidable fighters and swordsman, supposedly superhuman in nature. Many historians chalked that up to local superstitions and claimed they were on par with Spartan rearing. Raising children from a young age in the arena, bathed in blood and steel with only the absolute best coming out on top in their forbidden sacred trials.

Geralt wasn't one to debate hotly over the ethical practices of warrior races. His job was merely to act and portray those said races with as much accuracy as one could possibly manage. He did so by living the exact same lifestyle as these formidable fighters, breathing life into their practices within reason. It fulfilled some primal (and somewhat childish) desire that nestled firmly in his heart and gave him the utmost delight to wake up to each morning. 

Who wouldn't want to live their life like a 13th century warrior? Plagues, war and starvation aside, there was something inherently charming and self-fulfilling about this whole thing. It pleased Geralt immensely, so much so that when the director of Kaer Morhen's programs approached him at a Faire Tourney about the job, Geralt couldn't agree fast enough.

He retired from the arena with a damp rag dabbing the sweat from his face. His footsteps carrying him to the shadows along the walls and up towards the main Keep, when a curious sing song voice called out to him. It was unfamiliar to his ears, yet something sentimental plucked at his thoughts as if he has heard it like a distant echo once upon a time. Maybe it was the nickname that rode those melodic words. 

"White wolf, oh fierce wolf! He bares his teeth again! Nay say he, to every foe whose challenge has begun. He shall slay them all with skillful sweeps until he's won~"

Geralt turned to face the owner of the voice, a static tickle along the back of his neck left him uneasy when his amber gaze settled on the figure of a man. His chestnut hair swept over his forehead in disarray, clad in silks of teal and carrying a lute of the finest craftsmanship Geralt had ever seen for an actor. It was intricately decorated and branded with familiar old markings he couldn't quite recall off the top of his head. It was a work of art nonetheless and very old, appearing more like it should be exhibited in the Museum of the Keep and not toted around by a would-be minstrel. 

"Can I help you?" Geralt asked when he met the starry eyed look of the man in front of him. His cornflower blue eyes sparkled with a sudden delight as if Geralt had just promised him something rare and immensely sacred. 

"You heard me?" The man asked suddenly, staring at the warrior with mixed shock and awe.

"Kind of hard not to. You're rather loud you know." Geralt gestured pointedly at the musician, his gaze dropping to the instrument held fondly in the bard's hands. His fingers picked familiar notes along the strings. 

"I uh- I can't believe it. You can hear me? You can see me?" The bard looked at himself as if he were having trouble recognizing reality. He held his hand up before his face and Geralt was momentarily concerned this was either a prank in poor taste from his fellow actors or one of the new guys had a penchant for contraband. It was against the rules (and law) for them to consume drugs on Kaer Morhen grounds. Especially given the liability involved should something happen to one of the actors employed to the program.

"You alright?" Geralt asked after a moment of hesitation, eyeing the man suspiciously. He now looked like he was about to cry, which wasn't something Geralt was willing or eager to deal with. Maybe he ought to find one of the security guards and have them call for a medic from the tents out front.

"My apologies." The man sniffled. "I've been trying to get people to talk to me all day and well…" His voice drifted. "Nobody has acknowledged me once. I've sang and danced and even screamed, albeit that last part was in the ramparts." He heaved a heavy sigh. "Not a flinch nor even a wink followed."

His head snapped up suddenly with a brightened smile. "But you! You acknowledged me!"

" _Right._ " Geralt sighed, bunching the cloth up in his gloved hands and wringing the dampness from the fabric of the rag. "Listen, maybe you should go check the medical tent. I think you've cooked too long in this heat."

The man shook his head defiantly. "I've not an ailment to tend to my good sir. Only one that no medicine can improve." His voice dripped with melancholy as he looked out through the stonework and wrought iron grates at the passing tourists snapping pictures of the sparring matches. "If I may be so bold to ask, what is your name?"

"Geralt." He answered quietly, his amber eyes following the bard's gaze as he flicked a few strings with his fingertips.

"Geralt." He repeated to himself before turning towards the warrior more fully. He offered his hand in greeting, dragging out a warm and rather fulfilling smile that made Geralt wince inwardly. "I am Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Letterhove. But my friends call me Jaskier."

"Jaskier?" Geralt wondered mildly if the bard was still in character given the illustrious name. He raised a brow at the introduction and reached to accept the hand in greeting. His skin prickled and the hairs stood on the back of his neck when their hands missed, Geralt's fingers phasing through Jaskier's palm. 

"Bollocks!" Jaskier cursed, glaring down at his hands in contempt. "Why am I cursed this way? I did nothing to bring about such misfortune!"

"What the-" Geralt blurted, taking an unsteady step back from the bard who's current attention was fixed on his own two hands, mumbling incoherent nonsense about magic and mages and spells.

"Geralt!" A voice called from the sparring area, an elder man with a long grey beard braided neatly with flowers and small ribbons. He had dark blue robes that adorned his body and long scraggly dark hair combed out of his face but hung wildly down his shoulders. He had a dark brown satchel on his hip and a carved staff at his side that was more of a walking stick than anything else. Mousesack was the head of the Kaer Morhen program and a historical actor himself, portraying one of the rare druids of the time period. Ancient biologists and spiritualists of their time, they were knowledgeable in a great many things.

"What are you doing back there?" Mousesack called when his soft blue eyes landed on the warrior with a raised brow in question.

"Oh great. And I'm back to being ignored. Bloody hell." Jaskier cursed, kicking at the earth with a disgruntled noise. His boots didn't even stir as much as a scuffle of dust or a displaced pebble. Geralt's eyes dropped down to the action then back up at Mousesack who stared expectantly for an answer.

"I um...hm." Geralt fiddled with the rag in his hands thoughtfully, his eyes shifting from the druid back to the bard and caught both of their gazes with varying degrees of expectation in their eyes. 

"Geralt? Are you alright?" The concern in his colleague's voice was palpable. A warm hand reached up to rest on his shoulder, followed by a frown when the druid felt the heat rolling off of the leather of his armor. "Good lord, you've gotta be roasting in that. Have you been staying hydrated?"

"Yeah." Geralt answered simply. "Just wanted to sit in the shade for a little bit to watch the next round." He gestured towards the arena where two different warriors sparred with swords and shields in hand.

"I see. Well, if you're feeling under the weather, don't let stubbornness take you aside for indecision. Visit the medical tent for a once over. With the rising temperatures these next few days, the medics are on the lookout for heat illness."

"I'll keep that in mind. Thanks." Geralt gave a subtle bob of his head as he smiled, a small unfamiliar gesture that so few saw form on his lips. But Mousesack was a friend, even before he came seeking him out for the job opening.

"Good. Well, I wanted to also inform you that a meeting was to be held tomorrow night. Just a simple briefing before the busiest part of the week starts." Geralt nodded as Mousesack explained. "Six o'clock in the Keep."

"Thanks." Mousesack accepted the fragile and weary smile from his companion before glancing over him one last time. A firm pat to the shoulder followed before he turned to head off to inform the rest of the actors about the meeting and ensure nobody was keeling over from exhaustion.

"Wonderful." Jaskier spat between his lips and folded his arms with an ever growing pout.

"I can still hear you." Geralt reminded him. 

"Oh, fabulous! But that doesn't exactly help me, does it? Why are you the only one?" Jaskier straightened up. "Are you a mage?"

"A what?" Geralt asked, turning to face the bard now completely as Jaskier stepped closer. There was little heat in his approach and his tiny size was laughable compared to Geralt's broad frame adorned in the very intimidating traditional armor of the wolf school witchers.

"A mage! Casting spells and carrying out malevolent rituals in slutty clothing, you know." Jaskier gestured flippantly. "Or, well, maybe you don't." He reeled in, staring at Geralt with pinched brows and concern. "Are mages...are they not common here?"

"Magic isn't real." Geralt spoke matter-of-factly.

"This coming from the man who was just talking to a druid." Jaskier pointed but his finger went through Geralt's chest plate and left a tingly sensation blossoming in the warrior's skin. 

Geralt drew back with a hiss between his teeth and patted at the place where the bard had been touching. His brows pinched in frustration. "Stop touching me."

"Sorry, force of habit." Jaskier sighed. "Or, well it _was."_ He shook his head and plopped down on the ground with a mournful shudder. "I don't understand what's happening. I just woke up and suddenly nobody knows who I am and nobody can see or hear me. I can't touch anything!" He slammed his hand down to the earth, a feeble attempt to squash the blades of grass beneath his fingers but they only brushed through him as if they were an immovable mountain and he was but a faint whistle on the wind.

"I think...you might be dead." Geralt offered with a grimace. "You're the textbook case of a ghostly apparition. Sort of. My paranormal knowledge is sort of rusty."

"How can I be dead? I remember being alive, singing songs in the taverns and the sweet taste of wine on my tongue. It's as if it were only yesterday." He shook his head. "No, this must be a curse of some kind. It _has_ to be." Jaskier admitted.

"Who would curse you?" Geralt prodded, more out of curiosity than concern.

"To be honest? A lot of people. I've made many foes in many courts." He said that almost as if he were proud of the announcement. Like it were a badge of honor. 

Then Jaskier turned towards Geralt, his head cocked like a puppy begging for a hand to scratch behind his ears or a table scrap to fall to its paws. "Will you help me? Please?"

"No." Geralt blanched, already sensing this was far too much trouble for him and he had only been here a week.

"You're the only one who can see me! Hear me! Please! You have to help me! You're a Witcher aren't you? Witchers lift curses." Jaskier pleaded, rising to his feet as he approached Geralt with desperation in teary blue eyes. Geralt didn't know ghosts could weep and he kind of didn't want to see or hear it. 

"I'm not a Witcher. I'm a paid actor that does historical reenactments." Geralt gestured to the rest of Kaer Morhen. "See? Like them." His fingers probed out the pair of warriors going at it in the arena. "I just pick a role and play the part. I just so happened to be good at _acting_ like the witchers of Kaer Morhen."

"Bollocks! You are a Witcher!" Jaskier moved closer to the man with an indignant huff. "I can tell in my gut. There's no use hiding it." The confidence in which the bard spoke was irritating and his blatant refusal to listen to Geralt was even more infuriating.

"I'm not hiding anything." Geralt retorted, shaking his head in dismissal and refusing to spend another moment in this mad man's presence. Which was ironic given he was in fact, the one conversing with a dead man of all things. He really needed to reflect on how and why his life ended up this way. Or maybe, he needed more than just a field medic to look him over. "You're confused. Give it some time and you'll figure everything out eventually."

"That's not how curses work." Jaskier countered with a groan, throwing his hands up in frustration.

"You're not cursed. You're dead. You're a ghost. Of when, I have no clue. But I'm not going to be your saving grace. You're on your own." Geralt batted the bard away with the rag and stormed out towards the sparring ring once more. Jaskier trailed after him but was forced to stop outside the ring when Geralt joined in for the next match, pointedly ignoring the bard as he countered and parried blows until he was too hot, sore and sweaty to continue on.

By the time the match ended and Geralt returned to his pack outside the ring, Jaskier was nowhere to be seen and Geralt was more than ready to retire for the evening. He took Mousesack up on his advice and made a stop by the medical tent on the way back to his private tent to get a quick check over. A clean bill of health and a kind reminder to drink plenty of water later, and he was free to wile away the evening as he sought fit. Which lamely ended with him tending to his gear and having a semi palatable meal of rations from his pack. _For realism's_ _sake_. Some days he questioned why this lifestyle was so damn pleasing to him, and then he was promptly reminded of the 9 to 5 desk jobs he could have and remembered how much better this appealed to his inner masochist.


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh fishmonger! Oh fishmonger! Come quell your daughters  _ hunger!"  _ The bard's voice trailed with suspense as he started in on the next verse, causing the muscle in Geralt's jaw to jump as he struggled to pay attention to the meeting Mousesack was leading. It wasn't anything he really  _ needed _ to pay attention to so far. Just basic safety reminders, procedure updates and a few heads up about schedule changes and areas under construction. 

But in the case that he  _ should  _ know something new, he would rather have his attention entirely on the head of programs and not the obnoxious bard currently waltzing across the table tops dancing with such a crass and lewd song belting from his lips. Twice Geralt has reached out for his tankard in a paranoid reflex that the bard was going to kick it off the ledge or spill it over his doublet purposely. That is until he remembered that Jaskier can't touch any of the items the way a living person could.

It didn't ease Geralt's already quickly fraying nerves as he ground his jaw in frustration. The foul mood that settled over him caused two different actors to consciously move seats just to avoid the warrior and his would-be temper. He was new to this area and already he had gained the reputation of being unapproachable and frightening from looks alone. 

_ Just fucking perfect. _

He scowled down into his half filled cup and sloshed the water around in idle motion. He'd kill for some strong alcohol at the moment but Shani, one of the head medics for the program, had been on him all day about his hydration. Especially given the dark coloring of his equipment and how many times she's found him sitting in the shade with a soaked rag laid around his neck. The temperatures were soaring and he had a job to do. Tourists wanted to see  _ real _ sword fights and he aimed to please.

"If anyone has any questions, please feel free to speak up." Mousesack spoke up, bringing the meeting to a close. "One final reminder, the heat is rising so be sure to stay hydrated and remember to visit the medical tents for a check up. Shani and her team will take good care of you. We don't want to lose anyone to this blasted heat." 

He clapped his hands together quickly, dismissing the group to disperse to their respective tents or idle around the courtyard. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day with the new exhibits opening this week and the Watchtower was soon to be finished with reconstruction. Everyone was excited to see what new events will follow both projects.

Geralt on the other hand, was eager to find some peace and quiet. He downed the last few mouthfuls of his tankard and carried his empty tray to the open window ledge for the kitchen staff to collect. The partition wall offered a place for tourists to get food during the day and in the evening, fed the majority of the actors and staff who resided in these walls. Or those that wished to, could follow the road out of the valley and hit up the nearest town an hour away, for some fast food. It was a long winding route down the mountain, rather scenic if Geralt said so himself. He found pleasure in its view, perched up high where he could see it all.

He had walked this valley for the first two days he was visiting, Mousesack had accompanied him to tour the hills and paths, even trudging up the mountain side, through the large cave and up to the Circle of Elements. It was a small stone foundation with a fantastic view of the whole Valley. Geralt had sat up there with his colleague for hours, simply talking. The place wasn't open to the public yet and Mousesack had been debating over ever letting them see it. Beautiful view aside, the trek was potentially dangerous and the site itself held an air of sanctity. The stones were marked as if this place were a ritual site or a holy place for those that lived and fought in Kaer Morhen.

"Despite good intentions, you can't trust the public not to sully something so pure and important. The generations these days, they have little respect." Mousesack sighed with disappointment scrunching his aged features. The elder man scrubbed a hand over his face as he brushed a stray gray lock out of the way.

"It is beautiful up here, I'll give it that." He smoothed his palm over the stones and let the smallest smile grace his lips. They felt as if they were vibrating with an unseen energy curling and writhing beneath his bare palms. It was  _ familiar _ to him. As if he'd sat up here before, gazing out at the landscape with a companion, just talking.  _ Maybe in a dream? _

He's certainly had plenty of strange ones, some, of people he has never met before and some of which he had but in a different time. Like Mousesack for example. He dreamt of this man who dressed and talked like a Druid, who cast spells and greeted him in hallowed halls, drinking wine in the cold night air and sharing tales of adventures untold. Instead, he met a man of books and knowledge squirreled away in the halls of Oxenfurt University. Geralt had needed some information about a certain group and had been directed towards the leading expert in the field of study,  _ Vedyminaica.  _ The study of Witchers and all things related to them and their profession.

They became fast friends after that, sharing a few pints in The Alchemy bar and chatting over their knowledge of the old world. Which was precisely why when they needed a true swordsman trained in the way that witchers fought, Mousesack came straight to Geralt with the offer the man couldn't refuse.

He may, at this current moment, have many regrets about accepting said offer as he now sits in his private tent, being hounded with a rendition of the Maid of Vicovaro. For the third time today. His brows pinched together as Geralt drew upon all his years of patience and forced his face into a hard line of distaste aimed directly at the specter.

"I'm beginning to think I'm the one  _ cursed _ in this situation." He ground through his teeth. 

"Oh hello again! Nice of you to finally decide to talk to me. I was beginning to wonder if you'd suddenly  _ gone deaf!"  _ Jaskier's words were sharp and to the point as he returned the heated look the warrior directed his way. "Ooh scary face. Too bad you can't touch me any better than I can you. Otherwise that might have worked once upon a time."

"I've told you already, I can't help you. You're not cursed. You're dead. And only you can move on and fix whatever  _ this- _ " Geralt gestured at Jaskier dismissively.  _ "- _ is."

"You know, the others were right. You are very moody." Jaskier quipped, turning his attention towards his lute as he plucked at the strings in concentration. He ignored the taken aback look that hit Geralt suddenly, the man's frown only increased further before turning his attention back on his gear. He needed to ensure everything was perfect for the next day and he aimed to do just that. Both purposely ignoring one another until it grew late in the night and Jaskier had simply vanished without warning. Geralt only noticed when the obvious lack of music played in his ears. He looked up from where he was sharpening his sword and sighed, setting his equipment to the side with weary resignation.

  
  


* * *

  
  


When the morning came, it was cool against his skin as he walked the courtyard dressed down in just a white shirt and a basic harness for his steel sword. His boots crunched the earth beneath him as he reveled in the rising sun and the soft droplets of dew that dampened the polished toes of his boots. The fort was quiet, with only the idle sounds of the kitchen staff preparing breakfast for the lot of them, the warm inviting smells of meat on a fire persuaded him in, only further secured by the promise of coffee.

Mousesack was up already, flitting about like an anxious bird twittering and chirping with the small group of colleagues gathered from the University's historical studies. There were the odd actors that passed through, most of them had been tending to the horses in the stable, preparing for the day's events and then there was the medical staff. Shani was seated at one of the tables by herself, fiery red hair pinned up out of her face with choice clips, dressed in traditional garbs for the time period they all portrayed. In front of her, she flipped through the pages of an aged journal, leather binding falling apart at the seams and edges of the papers were stained, yellowed and tattered. Her free hand was curled around the quickly cooling cup of coffee in front of her.

Geralt smiled and went to get himself a bit of the earthy brew, returning with an apple and a muffin on the side. It was going to be another hot day and he wasn't fond of big breakfasts before work. His approach to her table with the intention of chatting with her was stalled by one very obnoxious bard. The specter appeared at his side, a whisper of energy that tickled along his senses like a static hum before the telltale chords of yet another song were strummed. Geralt rolled his eyes and made his way past the tables, balancing his apple and muffin in hand as he shouldered his way out of the Keep.

"Geralt?" Jaskier called, trailing along behind him with a disgruntled sound. "Were you just- did I?" His voice trailed off when the man finally did stop near the wooden arena. Geralt balanced his cup on the beam and pointedly ignored Jaskier in lew of eating his muffin and enjoying the  _ quiet _ of the morning before the rest of the camp got up.

"Geralt?" Jaskier tried again, his voice softer now as he plopped himself down on the beam. Geralt on reflex, reached to balance his coffee but reminded himself that Jaskier couldn't disturb it at all so it was an aborted attempt. He washed down the muffin with a few long gulps of the brew and grunted at the bard. He wasn't about to start talking to the spirit in front of any bystander who could catch a peek.

"You don't have anyone, do you?" Jaskier asked. Geralt nearly choked on a dry bit of blueberry, coughing fiercely to fix the mishap. It didn't stop Jaskier from continuing to announce his observations. "You live in a tent  _ alone.  _ You wear no ring of betrothal and you were flirting with that medic, or well, you try to. There and back in the tent the day we met."

_ Of course Jaskier was there for that. _ Geralt rolled his eyes and ignored the bard. He crumbled up the wrapper from his muffin and stuffed it in his palm, lifting the last few swings of his coffee to his lips. "My romantic life is none of your concern, bard." He said into his cup. 

Jaskier frowned and shook his head. "But is romance the only option for companionship? I believe that is where many of us go wrong in our lives." Jaskier strummed a few chords on his lute and sighed. "So many songs about love lost and love gained, but very few are ever sung about friends found and friends parting. They hold the same heartbreak nonetheless."

"This sounds like something personal to you." Geralt mumbled, low under his breath. He shoved the muffin wrapper into his cup and focused on his apple now. He rolled it around in his palm, inspected the bright red crisp skin and the small reflections it offered in the golden light of morning. "I don't have friends the way most do. And I don't do well with  _ relationships. _ " One night stands on the other hand? Were he to plant a flower for everyone, he would have the most bountiful garden to show for it. Or maybe they would simply die because despite knowing how to sow the seeds of interest, he was inept in caring for and nurturing those feelings. Maybe it would be the world's saddest garden, all dead and wilted. They hadn't a chance to show their beauty for he was a man of stone and steel.

"I can see why." Jaskier breathed, it was quiet but not enough for Geralt to miss it. He turned to ask the bard about it but was interrupted when his sparring partner for the day walked into the courtyard.

"Geralt I presume." The voice was raspy and twisted with an accent that Geralt was only mildly familiar with. The man was broadly built and stocky, with arms as big around as kegs and two dark green eyes appraising him closely. He wore dark brown leathers and a tan tunic, no sleeves and had a belt at his waist which carried his blades. They, like Geralt's current weapon, were dull.

"You must be Letho." Geralt greeted, ignoring the bard who promptly fucked off a few seconds later. Vanishing with a whisper of air and a cold breeze curling at the nape of his neck. The static pulse faded from his skin soon after. It was enough to ease Geralt's nerves as he and the other performer, a School of the Viper witcher, started their morning sparring match, practicing for the evening events when they would go toe to toe in the arena for real.

By the time noon rolled around, the tourists were bustling through the fortress and visiting the merchant stalls and makeshift market. They marvelled at the tents set up along the paths where blacksmiths and tradesmen alike showed off their skills and their goods. Mousesack had an area devoted to his potions and plants where he could share all of his knowledge on flora and fauna with the passing visitors, answering questions and inquiries and selling assortments of seeds for different plants growing around his tent. It was a hit with the ladies to say the least.

Geralt had double checked the schedule twice before gearing up for his match against Letho. He went over his gear and ensured nothing was out of place, doing a small walk around the courtyard beforehand to talk with the visitors passing through. He stopped to get photos with small children and adults, took selfies with curious and excited teens, and talked weapons and armor with the occasional homebrew armorer that was excitedly nerding out over it.

He was in the arena a few minutes early, waiting for the crowd to gather round as the event was announced to begin. Letho had taken his spot across from him, standing at the opposite end of the ring, doing his own mental checklist as he ran fingers over his straps and buckles. Geralt wouldn't admit it aloud, but this part made him more nervous than the fight itself. Hearing the announcer as they hyped up the crowd to get them excited did amp his own heart rate up.

He took a calming breath, steadying himself with a measured exhale. When the match began, they drew their weapons and the fight commensed. It went well for starters, parrying blow for blow as Geralt defended against Letho's shorter blades, using one sword against a duel wielding opponent was always a thrill and a challenge. Even in the playful test runs they did early this morning, Geralt would admit that Letho had taught him a few intriguing and useful pointers.

Geralt's amber eyes darted towards an unusual anomaly in his vision that bobbed around in the corner of his eye. He dodged away from one of Letho's strikes and rolled, coming to his feet with ease as he prepared for another attack. From this new angle, he could clearly see Jaskier phasing through the crowd of people to stand at the front of the ring. His blue eyes were bright and intrigued as he played soft notes on his lute on idle motion. Geralt could almost hear them over the thrum of the crowd and swore it was dancing music. The pace was rather fitting as he and Letho proceeded to duel it out. The music added a little something to the whole experience, like a hero in an epic tale fighting to save a damsel's honor. He clicked his tongue, it almost sounded romantic.

He denied the urge to roll his eyes at that and deflected another lunge from Letho. They gave smaller jabs and strikes, elbows and fists hitting the thickly layered leather of their armor, doing nothing more than applying pressure for dramatic effect. They both would grunt or groan in response, Geralt played out a dramatic stumble as Letho rushed forward, but Geralt gave a heroic parry, deflecting the blade in the nick of time. (Or so it seemed.)

"You're good at this Wolf." Letho rumbled out, as Geralt dove for the next opening, avoiding another well played strike as he corrected his balance and rose up in a crouch.

"So are you, Viper." Geralt smiled, full of genuine mirth as he lived for this thrill. The action and sounds, the feel of metal clashing together with calculated force. The  _ dance _ with swords so deadly yet so serene. There was something terrifyingly beautiful and glorious about it all. It was no wonder as to why this appealed to so many back then, the call of steel and silver coursing through their veins.

Geralt growled, a low snarl that rumbled in his throat when Letho narrowly missed his head in his next swipe. Geralt's heart jumped into his throat and he relished in it as his blood sang in his ears. He almost didn't notice the yelp that followed by his side as he darted out of the way. He felt the cold glimpse of air and that familiar electricity climbing up his skin and tightening the muscles in his back with little quivers of unease. A splash of teal in his peripheral, the panicked sound of Jaskier cursing in his ears and Geralt's instincts kicked in. Jaskier had somehow fallen into the arena and Letho was upon him in an instant. Geralt was already mid-feint and Jaskier would be in the line of strike.

It all happened so fast. Geralt twisted to deflect the blow, bringing his sword up at an angle that he shouldn't have. Letho cursed through gritted teeth as the blade in his hand was forced free of its decided path. Then there was pain and Geralt's vision blacked out, fire carving up his face as he screamed. His sword angled as he struck out, kicking Letho firmly in his chest plate. The other witcher had no way to defend as he fell back into the dirt, disarmed and thrown back. Geralt dropped to kneel, his sword lifted and angled to defend himself further from attack as his gloved hand covered his left eye. Blood dripped down the dark leather in quick streams. The announcer called the match over as the crowd stood around in shock and horror. Their cheers turned to silence when they realized this was not part of the show as the medics were called to the arena.

Letho recovered to his feet, dusting himself off as he approached Geralt, one hand guiding the sword out of his grasp and aiding the warrior in removing his harness. Geralt kept one hand over his face, trying to stem the blood flow that was currently staining his leathers and tunic, leaving crimson rivulets pooling against the nape of his neck. The other witcher shielded his form from the crowd by kneeling on his left, to prevent the audience from taking unnecessary photographs of the man while he was down. Security did their best to disperse the group of tourists while Shani's team rushed in through the back path.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this early this morning when I should have been sleeping and it has not been Beta read so bare with me. I hope the pacing sounds alright. We're starting to make headway into the thick of the plot now.

It was all a blur as Geralt was rushed to Vilmerius Hospital for his injuries, brief flashes of memory as he faded in and out of consciousness. Nausea and dizziness were the main concern he had as he endured what felt like an ambulance ride to hell. The long winding roads up the mountain to the old fortress were picturesque and scenic, until one is half conscious and riding in the back of an ambulance. The rocking back and forth and constant bumpy holes and hills made it feel like a rollercoaster ride. His vision had blacked out, he couldn't open his left eye and his right eye was too blurry and out of focus to do anything other than make him even more nausea.

Shani spoke to him the whole ride as she set up fluids and braced for the worse areas of their travels. Geralt could only grunt in response and give small pained smiles. Time shifted from unbearably long in the back of that vehicle to just a blink and he could hear the idle monotony of a hospital going about its usual routine. PA systems paging staff members, doctors discussing plans with nurses, nurses gathered around the main desk talking about weekend plans or complaining about mundane topics. It mixed together with the beeping of machines and the click of doors being swiped open. It all faded away with a growing pain in his skull, throbbing and ever present. 

When next he came to, he felt more relaxed and at ease. The pain was a distant thrum under his skin, a heat that was tempered just below the surface. He pried his right eye open and blinked the bleariness away from his vision. His face ached from the action as he turned his head slowly to inspect the quiet corner of his hospital room. It was dark, the lights had been turned off to let him sleep and not irritate his already damaged vision. The tacky sensation of tape and gauze pressed against his brow and pinched when he frowned silently. His armor was gone, all of it was replaced by a pale blue medical gown. It was uncomfortably baggy and hung around his neck. There was a residual ache in the crook of his arm where he noticed the i.v line had been inserted, there were three different small punctures where it had been removed and replaced. 

_ So much for staying hydrated.  _ He thought with a small inkling of amusement. He scrunched his nose up at the smell of antiseptic clinging to his skin from where the blood had been wiped away from his face and neck.

His attention shifted to the heap curled up in the corner of his room, just barely noticeable in the faint shadows. The blue robes were covered by a light summer jacket, the familiar ID tags hung on a lanyard around the scholar's neck. The mess of long grey hair was mussed up even further by nervous pawing.

"Mousesack." Geralt croaked dryly, his amber eye fixed on the man. He stirred, a small movement at first as the scholar was drawn to the waking world. "Mousesack." Geralt repeated, earning a sudden surprised jolt now as he sat upright, his blue eyes snapped towards Geralt in alarm. 

"You're awake!" His volume rose briefly before he could quell it, hunching his shoulders in a sheepish dip as he scooted the chair closer to the side of the bed. "By the gods, you had me worried."

"Is Letho alright?" Geralt pressed softly, his head tilted so he could rest against the pillow. He felt sluggish and heavy, making it hard to move and hold himself steady. Even his head felt like a bowling ball balancing precariously on his shoulders. 

Mousesack sighed heavily, shaking his head as he reached for Geralt's hand. Geralt frowned at the amused yet dry laugh that left the scholar. "You nearly got your eye gouged out and you're worried about another? You never cease to amaze, Geralt." He chuckled but it was flat and tired sounding. "He is fine. A couple bruised ribs is all. Shani was worried one may have been broken."

"So was I. I kicked him pretty damn hard." Geralt mumbled.

"I'd say that makes you pretty even given he cut you up." Mousesack pressed, giving Geralt's hand a gentle pat. "Do you remember what happened?"

"It wasn't Letho's fault." Geralt admitted. "I made a stupid mistake." He closed his eye and breathed slowly. He heard Mousesack shift in the chair beside him. 

"You don't normally make these kinds of mistakes, Geralt. I've known you long enough to know this." His hand squeezed over Geralt's, a tiny gesture of reassurance maybe? Or a reminder. Geralt couldn't tell. He was too tired and his stomach felt like it was wound tight and hanging from a thread like a dead weight in his gut. He may be regretting his idea to opt out of eating this morning as the poor decision was catching up with him, along with whatever drugs had been introduced to his system while he was out.

"All it takes is one." Geralt reminded bitterly. His body was a road map of scars and injuries from years of working and training for this. Honing his skills was not without its dangers and mistakes are a rocky road along this journey he has chosen. He assumed the wound on his face would only add to the assortment that already littered his body. 

Mousesack didn't look convinced but that wasn't Geralt's problem. He wasn't about to admit that he made a stupid mistake, chose to deflect instead of dodge because he thought a dead man was in danger. He certainly wasn't going to come out and say it either, that he talks to ghosts and is constantly bombarded by one very frustratingly annoying bard. At least in the past, ghosts ignored him and he could live peacefully (somewhat) knowing that he had no obligation to interact. Some noticed he knew but often avoided him and the ones that did interact had the common decency to do it when they were alone. And it was never anything like it is with Jaskier now. Jaskier was  _ different. _ And that was both surprising and infuriating. Especially given the fact the bard was hellbent on ensuring he had Geralt's complete and utter attention at all times.

"What's the prognosis?" He asked instead, making a valiant effort to change the topic of discussion. Mousesack sighed heavily, leaning back in the chair as it groaned beneath his weight. He ragdolled over the arms and sank against the worn cushions.

"You have a minor concussion but they want to keep you overnight just to be safe. Your injury has already been stitched closed and they suspect you'll retain full vision in your eye. Dr. Gratz said he would issue you some medicinal eyedrops to ensure you don't suffer any vision loss." He explained. "You should be cleared to leave by tomorrow afternoon. Shani can help you take care of it back at Kaer Morhen,  _ if _ that is, you would like to stay."

Geralt grunted quietly, letting his eye slip shut as he considered the information. He gave a snort of amusement at the last part. "You of all people should know me enough to know the answer. I'm not gonna let a scratch chase me off."

Mousesack smiled wistfully. "Some days your stubbornness is both a blessing and a burden."

"You enjoy it nonetheless." Geralt chuckled, a small huff of noise before he winced and stifled a groan. The ache in his face returned as the muscle in his jaw twitched and ran up the bruised and slightly swollen side of his face. It was puffy around his eye, he could feel the heat licking at the area of injury, a simmering warmth below the skin that bubbled and toiled.

"You should get some more sleep, Geralt. I'll be here if you need anything." The scholar reminded, giving Geralt's hand one final pat.

"Thanks Mousesack." He sighed, sinking back against the pillows with a wince. 

* * *

  
  


Geralt had been released the next day, just as Mousesack had said. He was eager to get back to his tent in Kaer Morhen and was thankful for the spare set of clothes the scholar had the forethought to bring for him to change into. A pair of dark sweats he kept in his belongings for practice and training, a dark faded t-shirt and a pair of sneakers. He had never felt so out of place before than he did wearing normal civilian attire. Which probably said quite a bit about his lifestyle that should be concerning to him.

They stopped on the way back to the castle to get a proper meal at a small Mom & Pop diner. It was Mousesack's treat after Geralt had complained about the horrendous state of the hospital food. A real hot meal was a blessing and he gorged himself on a massive burger in a back booth while Mousesack informed him that his armor was properly cleaned up and taken care of, compliments (and apologies) from Letho.

"If I had known he'd beat himself up over it so much, I'd have kicked him harder." Geralt joked pointedly with a fry in hand as he inspected the texts from Letho to Mousesack's phone. The scholar had his reading glasses resting upon the bridge of his nose while Geralt scowled at his empty glass as if it had offended him. The look lost its intimidating factor and bordered on comical given he had only one eye to glare with. His staring contest with the melting ice had been thwarted when the waitress came to refill his drink and take Mousesack's empty plate.

"It's a wonder you didn't injure yourself further kicking him like that." Mousesack raised an expectant brow at his friend. 

Geralt grimaced as he devoured the last bunch of his fries more eagerly. His distraction came when his drink was returned and he gulped down a few large swigs. "Its called skill, Mousesack. Knowing how  _ not _ to hurt yourself in a fight is just as important as how to  _ best  _ hurt your opponent. Win win."

"How enlightening." He rolled his eyes and paid for the check when it came. "Since you'll be out of commission for the arena, I wondered if you might be interested in taking a temporary position in the Keep? The new exhibit could use a wolf Witcher's touch. You're just as knowledgeable on the artifacts in the exhibit than any other tour guide."

"I'll think about it." Geralt answered after a brief pause. He finished off the last few bites of his burger and drained his glass, dusting his hands off on a napkin before dropping the crumpled heap onto his plate. "Thanks for lunch, Mousesack. I owe you later."

"No need to pay me back, Geralt. This was my treat." Mousesack waved his hand dismissively. "Now, we best get back before the others start to worry."

"Afraid they'll burn the castle down unsupervised?" Geralt joked, a dry laugh bubbling up in his chest as they both rose to leave.

"You say that with a smile but fail to realize some of these folks were present for the Oxenfurt Riots years ago." He lamented with a shake of his head. "Some days I truly wonder about society as a whole."

"If you keep fretting over nonsensical things, your hair will fall out." Geralt warned lightly with a quiet laugh. 

Mousesack turned on him with an amused smile. "Now who's the one being nonsensical?" Geralt didn't regard him with an answer, only a quiet grunt of acknowledgment as they made their way back to the castle grounds.

* * *

  
  


"Geralt! I'm so glad you're okay!" The bard practically screeched the moment the warrior entered his tent. Geralt winced, giving a small shake of his head in dismissal, ignoring Jaskier with a pointed glare. The bard watched as Geralt checked the outside of his tent with a brisk peek to ensure they were completely alone before gracing him with an answer.

"It's just a scratch."

"That doesn't look like  _ just a scratch." _ Jaskier pointed out as he plopped down on the floor and watched Geralt with a small pout on his lips. "I'm sorry. It's all my fault."

"What are you talking about?" Geralt asked, raising a brow at the bard as he deposited the white package with his medication in it by his bags. He paused to inspect his gear, all neatly laid out for him and freshly cleaned and polished by Letho himself. Geralt regarded the expert skill in handling it and smiled softly to himself. 

"I uh- I noticed you moved to protect me. I wasn't sure of it at first but I know it now." Jaskier started with uncertainty. 

"It's not your fault. I made an error in judgement and I won't repeat it again." There was an edge of finality in his tone that pressed against the bard to drop the subject. Geralt sighed heavily when he was met with the quiet notes of music gracing the air and resigned himself to whatever ballads would follow. Though Jaskier didn't sing this time. Only strummed the chords to a familiar melody as Geralt settled onto his cot with the determined look of a man in need of sleep.

He flopped over onto his side and pressed one hand gently over the bandaging on his face, fingers tracing the outline of the stitches, the hard raised bumps beneath the fibers. He sighed heavily, letting his other eye slip shut as he surrendered to his thoughts.  _ Damn it. _ He cursed under his breath, still feeling completely drained. It was to be expected with how much blood he lost the day before and his body was currently burning off all it could to recover. He hated times like these. The healing process was monotonous for any injury, common sense tells him to take it easy but his nerves burn and fray with idleness. He doesn't like  _ sitting around _ wasting perfectly good time that could be put to far better use.

"Maybe I ought to take Mousesack up on his offer." Geralt mumbled, hearing the gentle notes fade to silence. The warrior tilted his head, peeking one eye out at this tent expecting to see emptiness but instead found Jaskier seated on the floor beside his cot. The bard's back braced against his knee as he just sat quietly cradling his lute.

"Are you going to leave?" Jaskier asked, it was small and brittle. He didn't look at Geralt when he spoke, his head hung from his shoulders with a melancholic droop.

"No, I have no intention of leaving." Geralt answered firmly. "Mousesack asked me to start running tours in the Keep until I can take to the arena again."

Geralt sighed heavily as Jaskier spoke up with a hint of delight. "Then what's the problem? That sounds like a wonderful idea."

"I don't- hm." Geralt tried to form the words properly in his head. Working them around in his mouth until something seemed to fit what he wanted to say. "Me and people don't always get along."

"Nonsense! You do great with the public. I've seen it first hand." Jaskier countered. "You're a sucker for kids especially."

Geralt ignored the heat that crept up on his face at that observation. It was true, kids were so easy to handle and he enjoyed their imagination when it came to this type of thing. They would babble on excitedly to him, proclaiming he was a brave knight who slays dragons and saves princesses in need. Maybe once upon a time when he was a boy, he may have dreamt of such fantasies as ideal. But now, he knew the cold hard truth of the world and the past. It wasn't as romantic and fluffy as little kids like to believe. He sometimes missed that part of his life, when he could shamelessly believe in such fairy tales as truth. He delighted in encouraging the little ones to always believe in them because as a kid, sometimes the fantasy is your only safe haven from reality.

"Kids are easy, teenagers can go either way but I mean, who doesn't want to get your picture taken carrying a real sword around? Adults on the other hand." His voice trailed off with a grimace. He's had times where he's gotten into brawls because some stuck up asshole has decided they know better and refuse to listen to reason and rules. Especially when alcohol was involved. Some of the Faire's he's worked at in the past have led to some interesting encounters with drunkards. Of course, there was no alcohol allowed at Kaer Morhen, just a homemade rootbeer stand where folks can get souvenir tankards full of different flavors and walk around to gawk at the sights.

"How many times do you hear me  _ talk  _ to people? Like carry on full conversations?" Geralt pointed out, causing Jaskier to pause in whatever he was about to say. The bard tapped his fingers on his instrument then sighed.

"Fair point." Most of the time Geralt was being  _ talked to _ by curious passersby but rarely did he initiate the conversation or talk for more than a few words at a time. Unless the questions at hand had to do with his weapons and armor, then they might get a decent few sentences from the warrior before he reverted back to brooding silence. On top of that, he was very unapproachable. "Maybe you should try changing your style a bit. Make yourself look more inviting?"

"Why would I do that?" Geralt groaned. 

"Because you scare people away with those death scowls." Jaskier quipped.

"It didn't work on you."

"Well, I'm already dead so-" Jaskier waved a dismissive hand. 

"Oh, so  _ now  _ you will accept that you're dead and not cursed?" Geralt balked, leveling his good eye on the bard with a growing scowl.

"This coming from the man who took a blade to the face to protect the  _ ghost!" _ Jaskier countered with a huff, his pale blue eyes meeting Geralt's one weary golden orb. Geralt grunted and let his head dropped back into the pillow as he gazed up at the ceiling of his tent. The sun had warmed the air inside until it was stifling and he doubted he would get any sleep as is. Sweat was already beading on his skin, making the bandage feel tacky and uncomfortable on his face. He contemplated stopping by Shani's tent again but decided against it so soon. Letho was probably healing up in his own quarters after the kick he gave him. He winced inwardly at that reminder. A small worm of guilt wiggling in his gut.

"Fuck it all." Geralt growled out.

"I mean, that is always a great problem solver in my opinion but I'd personally suggest checking for spouses and betrothal first. Angry husbands storming in is a very rude mood killer." Jaskier rambled off until he caught the glare now angled and directed at him. "What?" 

"Shut up." Geralt grumbled. The bard opened his mouth to speak, met the pinched look of the man before promptly closing his mouth and returned to the idle flick of fingers on his strings in a slow melody.


End file.
